


Time Can Do So Much

by Mercury Starlight (WoolandWater)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Aziraphale is a bit of a bastard, Breastfeeding, Crowley is a good person, Fluff, Garden of Eden, M/M, Much more fluff than angst, Noah's Ark, Other, biblical disasters, but nothing particularly terrible, historical disasters, more tags to follow as chapters post, rated for violence and strong language, slow burn snapshots, supernatural entities don't care about the limitations of human biology
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-02
Updated: 2019-07-02
Packaged: 2020-06-02 15:52:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19444648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WoolandWater/pseuds/Mercury%20Starlight
Summary: Snapshots of an angel and a demon, falling in love by degrees. A glimpse into a few of the times one of them saw something new in the other, and loved him all the more for it.





	1. Biblical Proportions

**Author's Note:**

> _"Aziraphale/Crowley, 6000 Year Slow Burn, Enemies to Lovers, Mutual Pining, Angst, Fluff, My Ineffable Plan, no con/crit please, flamers should expect a smiting :)" ~ The Almighty God_
> 
> The fic title is a lyric from _Unchained Melody_ and I'm honestly surprised to find that I was the first one to use it, considering.

#### The Garden of Eden, 4004 B.C.

The Angel of the Eastern Gate was…fascinating. That was the word. Crawly was fascinated. Sure, the angel gave off a bit of an overall "apple-polisher" vibe, but that was a fairly typical angelic trait. No, the fascinating part was how much the angel seemed to _doubt_ things. Doubt wasn't supposed to be the sort of thing an angel was allowed to get away with. It wasn't even the sort of thing an angel was supposed to be _capable_ of. He should know, his own doubt saw him plunged into the Pit before he'd even realized what he'd done wrong.

And yet, the Angel of the Eastern Gate stood at his post, day after day, holding that fiery sword aloft and wearing a decidedly concerned expression. Not concerned as in, "This is my job and I take it seriously," but rather, concerned as in, "I'm not entirely sure what I'm _doing_ , and whether what I'm doing is what I _should_ be doing, and whether what I should be doing is, in fact, the _right thing_ to be doing." Doubt, and the ensuing anxiety over that doubt, absolutely radiated from him. It differentiated him from any other angel Crawly had ever encountered, that he could remember, of course.1 It made him interesting.

So once the whole Paradise thing had been well and truly spoiled (by him, unsettlingly enough, though he really hadn't meant to stir up such a fuss), he couldn't really resist sidling up to the angel and striking up a conversation. And of course, his suspicions had been correct. The angel was _exceedingly_ interesting. Gave away his sword? His holy, flaming weapon entrusted to him by the Almighty Herself? To the very creatures who had just fallen out of said Almighty's Good Graces?

This, Crawly decided, was a creature he wanted to know.

And then it started to rain, and he flinched from the unfamiliar sensation of water falling from the sky, and an instinctive apprehension that such water might be somewhat innately Holy. And immediately, unthinkingly, the angel extended his wing, sheltered him from the storm.

"Oh," Crawly said, "Er. Thanks?"

"No sense both of us getting soaked," the angel said, off-handedly, "I'd imagine you must get rather cold, what with the whole, er-"

"Snake thing?"

"Quite."

"Yeah, well…cheers!"

It was such a small gesture, so easily dismissed, and yet Crawly couldn't help but feel immensely touched by it. This being of Righteousness had concerned itself with his Enemy's comfort, not for any sort of gain that he could discern, but simply because it seemed the right thing to do in the moment. For all the angel's apparent doubt, when it came down to it, his first instinct was goodness, kindness, a reflex toward protection. Oh, but this angel was _fascinating_.

Crawly smiled. He'd been smiling quite a lot just now, he realized. His heart beat a bit faster, as well. 'Fascination' might not be a strong enough word for whatever this was. He was going to have to keep an eye out for this angel, going forward.

* * *

#### Noah's Ark, 3004 B.C.

Aziraphale was mucking out the elephant stall when he heard the baby crying. It was soft, and he ignored it at first, assuming it was Ham's youngest, seasick again. But it continued for a long time, and eventually he started to become concerned. It didn't sound like it was coming from the upper decks. It sounded like it was _below_ him, and that didn't make any sense. The only things below this deck were cargo crates and animal feed. So he grabbed a torch and went down to investigate.

He thought he imagined the first one he saw, the little legs disappearing behind a crate, vanished when he caught up and checked. Perhaps it was his mind playing tricks after five days at "sea". But he could still hear the crying, and it was getting louder, so he kept walking. He walked for what felt like an hour - the ark was, after all, the size of a moderate city. And he began to hear other noises. High voices talking in low whispers, quiet giggles, the patter of little feet. Finally, he passed around a wall of hay with an obvious glow behind it, and there he was. There _they_ were.

The hay had been arranged in a sort of common room, complete with braziers, bedrolls, even a small table. Near the center, Crowley sat on a hay bale, looking a bit harried and miserable. He was awkwardly holding a crying baby who couldn't have been more than a few months old. He looked as though he didn't quite know what to do with her, and was currently trying to coax her into eating a handful of dry oats. She clearly had no intention of complying. They were surrounded by at least twenty other children of varying ages and genders, none seemingly any older than twelve or thirteen. Some children played quiet games, some slept, some munched on dried fruit or drank from a bucket of clear, fresh water, clearly more suited for actual human consumption. A few of the older children held younger ones, babies too young to sit on their own.

Aziraphale hadn't been noticed yet. He stood by the wall, his own torchlight melding with that of the makeshift-room, taking in the scene, not sure what he should be feeling. The demon had _saved_ some of the children. Smuggled them in as stowaways, set up a little room for them down here in the dark. He had disobeyed the Lord's command, kept alive a handful of the humans doomed to perish. Protected the smallest, and most vulnerable, and most innocent among them.

Aziraphale thought he ought to be shocked. He ought to be relieved. He ought to be angry. He ought to be afraid.

He was none of these things. He was certainly confused. Aside from that, he wasn't quite sure what he felt.

He half-considered walking away, keeping mum and pretending he hadn't seen anything, leaving Crowley to avoid discovery on his own. But then a little boy looked up from his counting game and saw him. He gasped and pointed, and the other children took notice. They all froze, then immediately dashed to get nearer to Crowley. Most cowered behind him, or behind each other, while some of the braver children stood defiantly in front of the rest, ready to protect their friends. Crowley looked up at him, showing no surprise whatsoever in his being discovered, stood, and sighed. He gestured at the baby in his arms.

"I don't suppose _you_ know what it is they eat in the larval stage? I haven't managed to work it out."

Aziraphale scoffed, feelings finally settling on 'annoyed at Crowley' which was rapidly becoming a familiar, comfortable state of being after a millennium of random, unexpected encounters.

"Oh, _honestly_ , a thousand years among them and you've never _once_ noticed how they feed their young?"

"Eeh, I don't really think about food much. Always seemed a bit of a hassle, really."

"You've seen mothers breastfeed before, _hundreds_ of times! We watched Eve do it for _three days_! The other mammals do it _all the time_!"

"Oh!" Crowley knocked the heel of the hand not holding the baby against his forehead, rolled his eyes at himself, " _Obviously_ , I'm an idiot! Breast milk, of course! Honestly, with all the muddle I haven't had a proper lie-down in days, I think I'm getting a bit addled, forgot all about milking things. Well," he shrugged and looked down at his chest, "breasts are easy enough, I suppose."

Within moments he'd grown the necessary appendages, pulled his robe aside, and managed to coax the rapidly calming baby into latching. When she did, he made several different, disconcerted faces at once.

" _Whoo!_ That's a new one, gonna' have to get used to that."

He waved at an older girl holding another baby, "Here, Sara, hand him over, no good wasting the other one."

The girl handed him the baby, somewhat warily, and went back to staring at Aziraphale in mute shock. The other children seemed no more assured by Crowley's calm demeanor, still huddled away from the stranger and toward their savior. Crowley sat back down and got himself settled again. He seemed to notice the cluster of frightened children for the first time.

"Oh, don't worry about him, Aziraphale's all right, he's a big softy," he watched the angel steadily, his expression significantly more serious and threatening than his voice, "He's not going to hurt you."

Aziraphale rolled his eyes, "Well, _of course not!_ "

The children seemed mollified by this and slowly returned to their former activities. Aziraphale sat beside Crowley and sighed.

"You could have asked the other children, you know," he said, pointing out the obvious, "Plenty of them know precisely what babies eat."

"Good point, hadn't thought of that. Although, I haven't managed to get more than a word or two out of most of them. I think the whole 'shape-shifter with the bright yellow eyes who smells vaguely of sulfur and can move people great distances in an instant' thing has them a bit spooked, really."

"I'm going to get a good talking-to about this," Aziraphale grumbled, "The plan was _very_ clear. I'm responsible for ensuring that everything on board is correct and accounted-for, and the ship's manifest most certainly did _not_ include two-dozen bootleg children."

"Oh 'bootleg', don't be such a drama queen," Crowley wrinkled his nose at him, but then looked away, suddenly seeming a bit embarrassed, "...And it's just about four dozen, actually, the rest are on a supply run, port side. 'S as many as I could manage before anyone started to notice."

" _Why?_ " Aziraphale demanded, "What are you proving, exactly? That the Lord's plans can be thwarted? How does this benefit your side? Planning on claiming these poor children's souls, are you?"

Crowley looked legitimately offended. He stared at Aziraphale for a long moment, with an expression that said he didn't quite understand what the angel didn't understand.

"…They're _kids_ ," he said in a quiet voice, tinged with genuine outrage, "They were going to _drown_."

Seeing the hurt, baffled, somewhat angry expression on the demon's face, Aziraphale suddenly understood. This wasn't some sort of infernal plot, some manipulation of fate. This wasn't a demonic political statement. This was simply an individual attempting to right something he saw as an injustice. This was Crowley working, on his own behalf, to save a handful of innocent children from a horrible death.

He had no idea how to process that. He simply stared back at the demon (a _demon_ , he was _a demon for goodness' sake_ , what was he doing having _compassion?!_ ) and blinked a few times. Aziraphale hadn't liked the plan from the beginning, really. It seemed overly cruel, flooding them out like garden pests. At one point, he'd actually thought that if he had to choose between half the animals on the decks above and some of the more agreeable humans he'd met, he'd take the humans. He hadn't thought it very _loudly_ , of course. But he had thought it. And it seemed Crowley thought quite the same.

Aziraphale set his torch aside, ensuring it was doused before putting it down, and sighed again. He turned to another of the older children and gestured for them to hand him the baby they held.

"Well, you've bested me this time, foul serpent," he said, with more than a hint of gratitude in his voice, "I suppose I have no choice but to help you care for them, now they're here."

He glanced at Crowley, who grinned at him, and he felt his stomach do a little dive. He wasn't sure he disliked the sudden, fluttering sensation that grin was producing, and he thought that was probably not the best of signs.

* * *

1\. Had he been able to remember, this would still be true. The simple fact is, Aziraphale was far and away the most different angel in the entire Host. This, consequently, also made him the only angel worth knowing in the whole lot. [Back]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Noah's Ark scene was inspired by [this tumblr post/ficlet](https://rainydaydecaf.tumblr.com/post/185677767164/aziraphale-hanging-out-on-noahs-ark-watching-the) which has likely inspired quite a few of us.


	2. Something Tragic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's title is a reference to Hozier's _From Eden_ , because of course it is.

#### Alexandria, 180 B.C.

Another week, another excuse for a festival. Crowley couldn't even keep track of them anymore. This was one of the ones with food, though, so he thought he might look for Aziraphale. The angel had picked up eating on a lark a few centuries back and seemed very keen on it now. Crowley knew he was in town, he could sense him.1 He walked the market square a while and before long he spotted him sitting at a tavern's patio table, munching away at some brown, squishy thing.

 _I really ought to study up on food._ Crowley thought. _Better conversation opportunities._

He plopped himself down in a chair across the table from the angel, without being invited nor announcing himself. He knew it was bold of him, but he was in a good mood, why not tempt fate? He hadn't tempted much else lately. Aziraphale looked up, startled to suddenly have a table-mate, and sighed dramatically when he realized who his companion was.

"What do _you_ want?"

Well, that was ruder than average. Crowley's mood dipped slightly.

"I was in the neighborhood, thought I'd stop by," Crowley said, trying to stay casual and not betray the fact that the angel's tone actually stung quite a bit.

"I'm not in the mood, Crowley, don't test me today."

He didn't actually say to _go away_ , Crowley noticed, only not to _test_ him. Okay. That was doable. Probably. He put up his hands, placating.

"Not looking for trouble, promise. Really, I just happened by, saw a friend, and thought I'd say hello."

"We're not _friends!_ We are, quite literally, _enemies_ , in fact. My side would most certainly _not_ approve of _dining_ with the enemy."

"O-kay, so the dozen or so times we've already done so were...?"

"Poor judgment on my part," Aziraphale was positively sulking, his tone petulant. He was refusing to meet Crowley's eyes.

"Look, have I _done_ something to you? Cursed something you'd recently blessed? Tempted the wrong rabbi?"

Aziraphale sighed again, this time apparently to collect himself. He finally looked at Crowley. He looked absolutely _miserable_.

"I'm sorry. It isn't you," he took another deep breath, this one with a bit of a hitch in his chest. Crowley saw his red-rimmed eyes. _Oh no._

"What happened?"

Aziraphale waved him off, dismissively, "Oh...you wouldn't understand."

Crowley crossed his arms, sat back in his chair, "Try me."

Aziraphale watched him for a long moment, clearly trying to decide if it was worth it, spilling his guts to a demon. He let out another long sigh.

"I was reprimanded today. Rather harshly."

"A _reprimand? You?_ That's terrible," Crowley said, entirely sincere. He gave him a cursory look-over from where he sat, "Eeh, no visible bruises at least, that's something."

"I...what?" This apparent non sequitur threw Aziraphale for enough of a loop that he actually didn't look upset for a moment, only confused.

"...Oh," Crowley said, the thought genuinely only just occurring, "No, I suppose your side's reprimands _wouldn't_ include any beatings, would they?"

"Er…no. No, Heaven's blows are purely verbal, at least when it comes to the angels. But trust me, when you're hearing it from four irritated Archangels at once it's…certainly not the most pleasant experience."

"No, I can't imagine so," Crowley was simultaneously relieved and more saddened by this. A talking-to so harsh it made him cry? Crowley thought he'd rather take the beating. In his experience, bruises healed faster.

"But what did you _do_?"

Aziraphale took another deep breath and blinked back some sudden tears at the question.

"That's the worst part, really. I _thought_ I was doing something _good_. I was trying to _help_. You see, I've been very impressed by the burgeoning theater community around here. It's become quite something, you know. And storytelling is such a _wonderful_ form of human expression, and it creates such _empathy_ in them. I thought a minor miracle to boost inspiration would be a nice gesture."

"Hang on, they reprimanded you for inspiring humans to create art? How does _that_ make any sense?"

"Well, that's what _I_ said! But they didn't agree, clearly. Said it was a waste of a miracle, said I was _helping the wrong humans_! That if I was going to go spending the Lord's power on the pagans, it had better be in the name of conversion."

"More concerned with numbers than the bigger picture," Crowley shook his head, "Small-minded bean-counters, the lot of them."

Aziraphale fretted at that, fidgeted with his hands, "Well, they must be right. Mustn't they? I mean…if the will of the Almighty is for those of us on the side of Good to only help along Her followers, who am I to question that?"

"It's not right," Crowley said, frowning.

"But that's just the thing, it _is_ Right! It doesn't matter whether it _feels_ right in the moment, there's right and then there's Right and if they don't match up, well it's…it's ineffable," he shrugged, dejected.

"But what was the actual punishment? It can't _only_ have been a talking to, can it?"

Another sigh, "No, it wasn't. I'm to leave the city today, in fact. I've been assigned to Judea. I was only having a last nosh before I headed out. I do so love the way they prepare their honeyed figs here."

"Judea?"

"Mmm, they're canonizing the Scripture, apparently. I'm to go down and make sure the right bits make it in. It's not really much of a punishment, honestly, not to me. I think they assigned me because it's a load of busy work, but I find much of the poetry in the Holy Scripture quite enjoyable reading, actually. It's just the _principle_ of the thing. Punished for inspiring creativity in the Lord's creatures, it doesn't…" he cut himself off before he said anything more borderline-blasphemous than he already had.

They sat in silence for a few minutes, during which Crowley had a bit of an epiphany. He'd always known Aziraphale was prone to doubt, certainly, but he hadn't really put together how much of an outsider that made him. He was a very independent thinker for an angel. He had a habit of deciding on his own what seemed right in the moment, and checking-in after the fact. That probably made him rather unpopular Upstairs. Likely just about as unpopular as Crowley himself was down Below. He wondered if they got the same sort of flak from their superiors, the same unfriendly looks and snide comments from their peers.

Aziraphale was likable. He was fascinating, and kind, and interesting to talk to, and he could be quite funny when he relaxed a bit.2 But Crowley hadn't ever really seen the two of them as particularly _similar_ until that moment. As he thought about it, he realized that in many ways, they were very much on opposite ends of the same boat. And now that the perspective had shifted, he was never going to be able to unsee it. He wondered how lonely the angel must be. He wondered if the angel was anywhere near as lonely as he was.

He stood up, an impulsive decision reached.

"All right angel, we're going to send you off right. Proper going away celebration."

Aziraphale looked up, baffled, "What?"

Crowley smiled at him, "We are going to get roaring drunk, and then _you_ are going to Judea, that's what. Come on."

He turned and headed toward the doorway. Behind him, he heard a few sputtering, half-hearted protests, then the sound of a chair scooting away from a table. Aziraphale caught up with him.

"I suppose it's not every day one gets editorial review of a Holy manuscript," he said in a low, cautious voice, and though Crowley wasn't looking at him, he was sure the angel's head was darting about, ensuring he wasn't seen walking too closely to a demon, "Perhaps it does afford a bit of celebration."

Crowley grinned, "Couldn't have said it better myself. After you."

He gestured to the doorway, and Aziraphale shot him a bit of a glare as he passed. But alongside the grumpy expression, there was a measure of gratitude in his eyes. Crowley grinned wider. Lonely and drunk together, he thought, was certainly an improvement over lonely and drunk by himself.

* * *

#### Misenum, 79 A.D.

It was the worst week Aziraphale could recall in a good, long time, and he'd seen a lot of awful weeks. But this was unlike anything he'd seen in centuries, and the (literal) fallout was still all around him. The skies were dark, and the thin fingers of sunlight which escaped the haze were a sickening orange-red, the color of fire. The air across the bay was still poison, the ground there still a great oven, threatening the lives of anyone who dared return, try to help the victims, search for lost loved-ones buried under snow-like drifts of ash. After 3 days of helping the refugees as much as he could, influencing others to do the same, he'd had enough. He put aside his humanitarian efforts for a night, and ducked into a tavern to get good and drunk.

He was on his second bottle when he noticed the telltale red in the corner of the bar. Crowley sat with his head buried in his arms, one hand clutching a bottle. Aziraphale watched him for a moment, but he made no moves at all, and eventually his curiosity got the better of him. He approached the table and sat down across from him, glancing around nervously as he did so. Still, Crowley didn't move. He wondered if he was asleep, perhaps, knowing the demon enjoyed such a past-time (though he could not for the life of him understand why). _Or passed-out_ , he thought, eying the mostly-empty bottle and the numerous empty ones beside it, enough that he'd need to take time to count them. He thought he'd test the theory.

"Celebrating then?" he said, drunk and bitter, and likely harsher than he really should have been, "I know this mess wasn't one of ours, and the humans aren't exactly in the volcano business, so I assume it was your lot's doing?"

Crowley lifted his head, blearily trying to focus on Aziraphale's face.

"Oh," he said, "H'lo angel. Care for a drink?" He half-heartedly waggled the bottle in his hand.

"I've got my own, thank you," Aziraphale sniffed.

Crowley took a swig from the bottle. Aziraphale took a good look at him. He was filthy, covered in ash, but of course, so was everything just now. But there was something odd about his face. Lines traced along his cheeks, disappeared under his dark glasses. Tear tracks. Crowley had been _crying_.

"Twenty-thoussand people," the demon said quietly, rolling the edge of the bottle along the table, between his hands, "That's how many they were aiming for. Probably got a good what, ten? Twelve? Doessn't matter. It doessn't matter."

Aziraphale watched him, stunned. He'd never seen Crowley cry. He didn't know demons _could_ cry. Crowley took off his glasses to wipe his eyes, but ended up weeping into his hand instead. Aziraphale immediately realized his mistake, his unkind initial assumption, and felt very sorry for it. Crowley was drunk, yes, but he certainly wasn't happily sauced. This wasn't an occasional tear shed in tipsy excess; Crowley was _distraught_.

"I tried to sstop it," he moaned through tears, "I tried! I sshouldn't have, I know, I got one _Heaven_ of a dissciplinary action after lassst time…"

"…Last time?"

"I delayed it," he said, quieter again, staring down at the bottle, "A while back. Only sshook it up a bit. I thought maybe I could sspread it out? Sssoften the blow, you know?"

Aziraphale nodded slightly, but he realized Crowley hadn't looked at him since the glance when he first spoke up. He was beginning to wonder if he really knew he was there at all.

"Only put it off for ssixteen yearss. _Sssssixteen yearsssss_! That'ss it, that'ss all, that'ss _nothing_. And I didn't mind the punisshment, I would have taken more, I would have taken _sso much more_ to make it _sssstop_. But they took it away from me before I could, ssaid they couldn't _trussst_ me with it, ssaid I'd lost the _privilege_ …" Crowley took another long swig, finishing off the bottle. He slammed it back onto the table and sank his head back onto his folded arms.

"Twenty-thoussand people," he muttered into the table, "Old men. Pregnant women. Little children. Great minds of ssscience and art and…and _Hassssssstur_ getss a fucking _promotion_ out of it and I…" he broke down again, shoulders wracked with quiet sobs.

Aziraphale was in something akin to shock. He knew Crowley had a soft-spot for humanity, but he was a _demon_ , it was his _job_ to cause their suffering, it was his _nature_. And yet here he was, utterly devastated over a disaster that, while horrific, granted, wasn't close to the worst destruction he'd ever seen, wrought by either side. _But then,_ Aziraphale thought, _He didn't feel responsible for any of those disasters. He feels responsible for this one. He feels guilty._

Aziraphale felt something in that moment that he hadn't imagined he could. He felt _proud_ to know Crowley. He felt proud that this demon, this Enemy of the Lord, was someone he spent any time with at all. He knew there was a kind-hearted streak in this supposedly evil creature. He'd seen it before, several times. But it had never been brought into such stark relief for him until this moment. Crowley was on the wrong side, which in-and-of-itself made him bad. But for all his badness, he was not Bad, not the way he was expected to be. And that was truly admirable for someone in his position.

"Gone," Crowley muttered, distant and hopeless, "It's all gone, _all of it_ , like it wass never there at all. A great jewel of Rome, _poof_ , wiped off the face of Earth like sso much…fucking…sso much…whatever getss wiped off thingss."

Aziraphale thought his heart might break in two.

 _O Lord,_ he prayed silently, wishing he could do anything to lessen the demon's sorrow, _Let some good come of this awful thing. Don't let it all be for naught. Let future generations know the names Pompeii, Herculaneum, Stabiae, Oplontis, Boscoreale. Let them know the beauty of this place, the culture, the life, the humanity. Don't allow them to fade to nothing like so many others before them, like so many others will again. Let them be remembered._

"You know," he said carefully, "I've personally tended to hundreds of refugees these past few days, and I haven't seen nearly all of them. Many lives were lost, I know, but so many others were saved. More than one of my fellow relief workers mentioned that the earthquake in 62 inspired them to draft up evacuation procedures, consider how they might save more lives should another disaster strike. Perhaps…there's _some_ comfort to be found there?"

Crowley's only response was a quiet whimper.

Aziraphale looked around again, ensuring that they were not being watched in any way. Then he reached out a tentative hand and placed it gently, but firmly, on Crowley's arm. Crowley jumped a little at the unexpected touch, but though he didn't look up, he didn't pull away. They sat there together, in quiet mourning, for a long, long time.

* * *

1\. Though he certainly wouldn't let Aziraphale know, the truth was Crowley had been following him around for quite a while now, keeping at a plausibly deniable distance and conveniently arranging to be assigned close by. This made it a lot easier to "accidentally" run into each other, which used to only happen naturally once or twice a century if he was lucky. He'd managed to get it down to once or twice every few decades without Aziraphale noticing (or if he did notice, he said nothing about it, which was just as well). [Back]

2\. ...and he was quite handsome, and Crowley sometimes wondered whether the angel's lips would feel as soft as they looked, and what sort of noises he might make if Crowley were to kiss them and…that way lay madness. He always put such thoughts aside after a moment's indulgence, though they always seemed to worm their way back in, eventually. [Back]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Pompeii scene is inspired by the book. In the series, Crowley doesn't seem too off-put by getting the credit for the Spanish Inquisition, and actually I think Aziraphale says Crowley claimed responsibility himself. 
> 
> In the book, he apparently just happened to be in Spain at the time, Hell assumed it was his doing, and when he got the commendation his reaction was to drink for a week straight. It implies that he's actually very uncomfortable being associated with particularly terrible things.

**Author's Note:**

> To be clear, that opening note is from God, not me. I literally always welcome all comments & reviews, including con/crit. No smiting involved, whatsoever. ^_^


End file.
